Domenique set her mug of coco, brandy free, on the little table Letreese jokingly described as where she'd put Santa's milk and cookies, and got to her feet. She knew what was expected. The song playing through Letreese's surround sound, Dangerously In Love by Destiny's Child, was her cue. The two women studied each other as Domenique began her dance. As Domenique slipped out of her top, Letreese lowered her slowly blossoming pussy closer to the mounted dildo. She held her legs in a forward split, and braced herself with sinuous arms. You are the drops of rain and I am the sea, sang Destiny's Child while Domenique took her time about unsnapping her way down her button fly.
Letreese's philosophy was that life was nothing if it was not a perpetual pursuit of one climax or another, an all too finite system of juicy sweet and savory hot sensory exchange, whether under the passive observer's gaze or physically induced by direct, consensual, touch. It was also her conviction that she'd surely die with the death of her sensuality. Love, A K A Letreese Coble, had grown up in a Baptist family that pulled its roots in Alabama, moved up to Illinois, and then finally settled again in Connecticut. In Letreese's case, the fruit had in deed fallen far from the tree, rolled out of Eden and was consumed by the allure of the seamier, steamier, side of life.
She believed there would be plenty of time for God; after she died. So Letreese lived, enjoying and learning from the work of southern black and white male and female authors, and business women in front of and behind the camera in the porn industry. One day at a time, Letreese secured her freedom, her comfort in an ever changing world until she realized her body, in all its glorious nakedness, was one with the natural world, like a bell jar held against the wilderness. As for her skin, the deep rich brown of it, for herself, her fans and her lovers, it was a smooth and supple suit of armor. Beyond that, there were the black girls who didn't think she was black enough, shooting contemptuous leers at her on the days she'd relaxed her hair, the white girls who assumed her speech and intelligence was her way of disarming or whiting herself, or the older white lady cashiers in the stores who had that look that said there was no way this black woman was going to have the money to pay for these clothes.
Inside her black woman's skin, through her black woman's better sense, her sexuality and intelligence forging the fire of her confidence and self respect, Love crossed all sorts of lines all the time, and that made the stupid people's stupidity drown in the wake of her substance. In Love, for Love and wrapped around Love, black was in deed beautiful and everyone that truly mattered knew it. Domenique knew it, and she had truly mattered. Domenique still mattered, even after she'd inflicted her violence and left.
Like a plump drop of fresh spring rain pooling at the tip of a leaf, a glowing bauble of Letreese's pussy juice clung precariously from her slightly open lips. Domenique, just a thong's snap away from naked, watched as the bead dropped onto the tip of the black dildo below, and then made a slow, diminishing trail of itself along the head and down the shaft. It hit her then, an ugly memory she would have been astonished to know Letreese had written extensively about.
It was shortly after she'd attacked Letreese; the night the one black customer she'd ever had-handsome, well dressed and accompanied by a small entourage - strode up to the stage, sent a hundred dollar bill sailing to her feet, and then asked her to come and have a seat on the throne of his lap. A hundred dollars was still a hundred dollars, so Letreese lapped the man. Not wanting to upset Domenique, Letreese restricted her conduct and movements to what she'd do for a regular thirty dollar dance. So she danced a hundred dollars' worth, and because it was bad business to be rude, Letreese remained polite, laughed at the right times, gave a minimum of personal information and gently reminded him to keep his hands at his sides for the duration of the dance.
Now fully naked, trying to cut off memories of bruised brown skin and bloodied lips, Domenique noticed Letreese's eyes narrow. She thought she saw the veiled look of disdain Love reserved for her hecklers. Then, Domenique looked down at the artfully shaved out eyes of Letreese's pubic face rise and fall, and then studied its pussy mouth take in the dildo, the beads of its sweat dripping trails to the bottom edge of the beam, an occasional drop making it to the floor below. Soon, she would bring her mouth and tongue to that face, giving Letreese the next thing she wanted. It was Letreese's favorite; Dom working her practiced cunnilingus as her G spot was massaged with something very big and smooth, while she confidently teetered, legs spread, on her balance beam.
What is the value of having the upper hand, DOMENIQUE asked herself as she brought her mouth to Letreese's pussy. Do I really enjoy getting off that much on the come hell or high water? Was it really the safest place in a relationship? Maybe that's it; it hurts too much to be on top. Domenique's smile widened as she planted her first kiss of the night on Letreese's tiny dick of a clit. Yeah right; you love it, bitch.
Domenique didn't have to follow Love up the stage steps that night. But, retreat was no longer an option. Letreese, after all, had taught her that she could be loved, that she deserved it, though her warped sense of self took deserve to mean steal. After her emancipation from foster care, Domenique had promised her Aunt Heather that she wouldn't go into stripping. And she hadn't, not for a couple of months anyway. But the pay beat anything she could collect doing any other, conventional, menial labor at the time. So she found a decent place, worked on her stage persona and eventually met Letreese.
The relationship worked because Letreese recognized Domenique for what she was: a narcissistic viper; a uniquely lovely, broken hearted hammer fist of a woman. She was the top to Letreeses top. Dom knew that Letreese understood that she hadn't run away, but that she took off to give her a break. They were both very intense women; two tops that spent more time getting off as two wrongs trying to make it right.
As for Gwen and the girls, Domenique's last tryst with them was some of the best sex she'd ever had. So, she couldn't just tell Gwen that the plan all along was to create a system of physical intimacy, a scrumptious buffet of juicy pussy, that would make even Letreese jealous. Sure, Letreese had her adoring fans, but she never slept with them, nor had she met a dancer back stage that revved her erotic hunger like Dom had. Now, the break was over, and like her stage performances, Letreese's timing was just right.
Domenique saw the shift was coming. It was in the dynamic between Gwen and TINA in how they talked, how they played with each other during their group intimacy. Why else remain behind that night, fain sleeping, and then follow them later. If Domenique hadn't seen the three white roses emblazoned on their billboard, she would have surely beaten the hell out of both of them. So she followed, stopped at the liquor store, staked out, and then followed again until they arrived at the club and Domenique understood everything. In that moment, Domenique realized that Letreese was her way of transitioning back to settling into a new equilibrium of sobriety. Letreese would help her stop drinking again, and when the two wrongs not making a right nature of their top to top love affair drove her to drink again, Domenique would leave and Letreese would move on. It was fucked, Dom knew; but it was also the only way she knew how to survive.
Letreese, now thoroughly lubricated, Domenique's lips and tongue spreading her juices over every single facet of her pussy, took her hard black silicone dick all the way in. Her arms showed no sign of fatigue as Letreese fucked her toy while Domenique spoke silent poetry against her swollen clit. A few moments more, Letreese's pelvis began to quake. Domenique was still very focused , her lips and tongue seeming to anticipate each subtle move of her lover's frantic pussy. Another moment more and Letreese was literally bouncing on her dildo, as if riding a stationary pogo stick.
Not unfamiliar with how she should proceed next, Domenique held her head rigid, and settled her chin in just the right manner and place so that Letreese could buck against it without any lose to momentum. Letreese fucked her big black balance beam dildo and Domenique's chin with animal ferocity; piston pumping, rolling her head back, her beaded hair bouncing, mouth open in a wide smile, then chest heaving, sweat shining between her breasts, then coughing deep throaty growling grunts of mounting satisfaction. Presently, Letreese's eyes glazed over as her mouth widened and her breaths deepened with the resolution of her orgasm.
Then, as Domenique stood, Letreese beckoned her closer. Now much too weak, to make her own way off the dildo and the beam, With little effort, Domenique lifted her gently up and off, and then onto the pussy juice smeared gym mats below. There, Letreese lay in Domenique's lap. Spent, her breaths shallowing gradually, Letreese settled her head between Domenique's breasts and gently stroked her drying lips.
"So you sent the red head the proof she needed?" whispered Letreese, her mouth close to the erect nipple of Domenique's left breast.
"I did."
Domenique licked her swollen lips and wiped her cheeks and chin with the back of her hand. She found herself suddenly musing over the qualitative differences between lovers, the scents, their inspiration, their bodies and the distinctive facility with which they used them as weapons in the war of forging, encouraging, coaxing, whatever the truth was, love from sex. I want to have Gwen just one more time , was Domenique's next thought as she played with the smooth, lustrous beads of Letreese's hair.
3
Tina stared absently at the freshly falling snow as she walked with Jules to the front door of Letreese's apartment. She found herself thinking about how old fashioned, as Freddy Mercury and David Bowie had described it, the word love was. Love was the name you gave your baby, boy or girl, after it safely left your body and was placed in your arms. Love, Tina understood , was saying thank you for the things you do for me, for the things you do to me. Jules was right. What they'd had with Gwen and Domenique was a revolving, communal intimacy, a mutually, gratifyingly depraved respite with only the most necessary conditions. Which, Tina liked to believe was a good thing, or at least a good enough thing; seeing as how Gwen wouldn't be there to share in the play.
She had brought along a gift bag of toys, a fruit tray, a vegetable tray and enough cucumbers for a game of Kegel crush. Jules was carrying a box of confections she'd bought from her favorite pastry shop. It was Jules that rang the bell, and it was Domenique, dressed in only a few pieces of jewelry, who answered the door.
"Look at you!" laughed Jules, taking Domenique in, "You're not wasting any time."
"Clothes would just mean more to clean up later." Answered Domenique after exchanging a friendly kiss with Jules and taking the pastry box, "Though I suppose there's something in here I can put on or stuff inside Tina."
